


Cherished Echo

by LeslieFish



Category: Highlander - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-31
Updated: 2003-12-31
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:33:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeslieFish/pseuds/LeslieFish
Summary: Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived atDaire's Fanfic Refuge. Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDaire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile.





	Cherished Echo

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Daire, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Daire's Fanfic Refuge](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Daire%27s_Fanfic_Refuge). Deciding to give the stories a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Daire's Fanfic Refuge's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/dairesfanficrefuge/profile).

Cherished Echo by Leslie Fish

_Cherished Echo_

By Leslie Fish 

* * *

Methos reined his horse to a halt, inadvertently yanking on the chain that led the coffle of slaves, and stared at the campground ahead. No, his first glimpse hadn't been mistaken; the banner on the pole over to his left, beyond the tents of the amber-merchants, was the ancient Red Horse of Sarmatia. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, shook his head — and when he was done, the banner was still there. 

_Impossible. It's been almost a thousand years. They couldn't have survived—_

He kept telling himself that as he picked out a good spot for his camp, ordered his two guards to take positions there, ordered his servants to set up his tent, handed off the chain of the slave-coffle to the nearer guard and the bridle of his horse to the other. No, a running red horse on a white hide was a simple device; other people must have thought of it. This was surely the camp of some later horse-tribe, Gallicae perhaps, or even Keltoi, though what they'd be doing at a Makedonian merchants' faire was anyone's guess. On his whole journey north along the shore of the Euxine Sea, he'd heard only legends of the Scythians, not even a whisper about the ancient Sarmatians... 

_But we clung to the shore,_ he remembered. _Didn't go out onto the plains. The plains are very wide..._

No, he wouldn't hope: wouldn't dream. The old people, the old life, the old world, were all long dead — dead nearly a thousand years, buried in ash and rubble and dark waves in the overturning of the age. This was a newer, darker age: of man-gods and man-rulers, of war and slaughter, of rule by the strongest and victory for the cruelest. None of the old people could have survived, and there was no point in tormenting himself with fancies of what had once been. 

He told himself that, over and over, as his feet chose the way toward the Red Horse banner. 

There was a cleared space around the banner, marked only with a rope mounted on sticks. A crowd of various merchants and guards clustered near, trying to look as if they'd come that way only by happenstance, casting furtive glances into the rope circle. In the center of that clearing stood the banner, and close behind it a single large tent of dark felt-cloth sections, its shape and construction wrenchingly familiar. To either side of the tent's opening stood guards — short, slender but muscular, wearing boiled-leather armor and helms crested with horse-tails, carrying crescent-bladed bronze axes at their belts. The design of the arms and armor had changed a little through the centuries, but was still recognizable. The linked-bronze weapons-belts were the same as they had been a thousand years before. 

_Goddess, it's them!_

Methos had to stop and take several deep breaths. He shook his head to clear it, telling himself to be calm, that of course it made sense that the goddess' warrior-maidens would survive if anyone could. The Ia-Ma-Zone'i, the Exalted Mother's Belts, had been the finest warriors of the old world; if they hadn't stemmed the dark tide, they could at least have stood as a rock in its stream. 

'Hey, think to try your luck?' snickered a voice at his side. 

Methos turned to look, and saw a scarred and grinning Makedonian spearman. 'What luck?' he asked, pretending a bumpkin's ignorance. 'Who are they?' 

'The A-Mazos. The No-Tits.' The man made an obscure gesture, and sneered. 'They come every seven years, by the old treaty. Just as well it's only once in seven years. They're a bad example to decent women.' 

'What treaty?' Methos nudged, looking innocent. 

'Nobody remembers for certain,' the spearman shrugged. 'Some say it was Theseus himself, after they tried for Athens and failed, when he stole away their queen. You've never heard the tale?' 

Methos dumbly shook his head. He hadn't paid that much attention to the squabbling politics of the new kings in the last few centuries; their tales were all the same. 

'Ah, well...' The man stretched, scratched, and settled in for a good story-telling. 'Theseus went a-pirating, and caught their queen Hippolyta on the shore of the Euxine. He stole her away, with her sacred belt and all—' 

Methos suppressed a reflexive shudder, remembering what the sacred weapon-belt of the Mother had meant to his ancient people. This lout wouldn't know of it. 

'—and married her proper. Gave him a fine son, she did, but the boy died badly in the end... Ah, but that's another tale. So, the A-Mazos came to win her back. Besieged Athens, they did, and Hippolyta died in the fight before Theseus beat them to a standstill. 'Tis said they made the treaty then, though there's no carved stone to prove it, saying they could have back the sacred belt but on two conditions: first, they must go back to Sauromantia and never trouble the Graecoi lands again, and second, once every seven years they must send one of their maidens to marry a Graecoi prince. Heh! I suppose he thought to have many sons, and hoped to teach the A-Mazos civilized customs, but it didn't happen.' 

'Civilized...?' Methos muttered, grinding his teeth at the bitter irony. _'Sauromantia' they call it now..._

'Aye. Those wild women don't marry, in their own country — only take lovers, and leave their brats to be raised in the temple of their mare-goddess. Gods know if even they can tell who the fathers are! Savages, utter savages.' 

Methos nodded automatically, not daring to say anything lest he end by shoving his fist down this idiot's throat. 

'So the treaty was meant to tame them, I'm sure, but they found a way around it, they did. Aye,' the spearman laughed. 'They say, 'tis their custom that their maidens marry only men who can beat them in combat. Aye, it's true! So once every seven years they send a maiden, and her guards, this far into Graecoi land and announce that she'll marry the man who can beat her. Heheheh! Sounds easy, doesn't it?' 

'Combat,' Methos repeated, remembering his Ia-Ma-Zone teachers. Old Balo, dust and ashes these thousand years now, had beaten him regularly for a good six years until he took up the new weapon — the long-knife, the sword — that bronze made possible. Even then, it had taken him another two years to come up with a move that could defeat her. No, even now he didn't think it would be easy to defeat a trained Ia-Ma-Zone. 

'Well, be warned.' The man leaned closer and dropped his voice. 'They're wickedly good with those nasty moon-axes of theirs. They must have gotten some curse from their witch-goddess, makes 'em fight like dragons. I've seen more than one eager young fellow go a-trotting into their camp, hoping for a cheap wife — and come out heels first. Turned the old treaty into a wicked trap, they have. Don't you go falling for it, my boy. 'Tisn't worth the risk, anyway. Take a close look at those women; they're ugly as knotted old mountain-trees: all hard lumps, and in all the wrong places.' 

Methos only grunted in reply, studying the Ia-Ma-Zone sentries standing relaxed but ready beside the tent. Mortals, he reflected, had a disgusting ability to lie to themselves. The lean muscularity this fool would have called beauty in a man he considered ugly in a woman. 

Gods, but the look of them was so familiar! He ached to know how many had survived, how much Sarmatia had changed, if any of the old customs held, how big a fragment of the old world yet lived. But could he step onto their ground and speak to them without having to fight? Was it worth his death to know? 

His feet decided for him, dragging him half a step forward. 

'Hey, you fool!' The spearman clutched at his arm. 'Get yourself killed, just on the chance of plowing one of those bitches—' 

Methos turned to look straight at him. Whatever the man saw on his face, it was enough to make the lout let go and step backward. 

'Perhaps I want a bride who can fight,' Methos said. Then he turned and marched through the gap in the rope. 

The crowd rumbled in surprise and speculation, and the Ia-Ma-Zone'I came to attention as he approached. One stepped forward to meet him, and held up a warning hand. 

'Know you,' she said, in bad trade-Makedonian, 'no man come this ground, only to fight for bride.' 

Methos nodded acknowledgement and paced closer. He didn't want the onlookers to overhear this. 'I come to ask who rules now in Sarmatia,' he said quietly in the old tongue, praying that it hadn't changed beyond recognition in a thousand years. 

The guardswoman's eyes went wide. 'You speak as we do?' she said, her grammar strange and the words oddly inflected but understandable. 

'I study the old ways,' he said, taking care to keep his words simple. 'How fares Sarmatia now?' 

The Ia-Ma-Zone glanced nervously into the tent, then back. 'We are few,' she admitted. 'Queen Adigia rules, from the last city — up the river, away from the sea. We wander the plains now, to keep far from the god-men and their wars.' 

Methos sighed in understanding. So, they'd withdrawn from the old trade-routes and moved onto the plains, probably lived primarily by herding, and had forsaken the old cities; that meant little trade or farming, and probably less of manufacture, living as simply now as the Scythians. They'd kept their customs, but lost much of their civilization — and they were aware of it. All he'd taught them, so long ago, they'd had to leave behind. 

Ah, but that led to another question. 'Is there a demigod or goddess in Sarmatia now?' Much hung on the answer. 

The guardswoman shook her head. 'We pray at the altars, but no one answers. None have walked among us in ten generations. Still we pray to Kerdo-of-the-Moon to send us a child of hers. Perhaps someday she will hear, and be merciful.' 

So, there was no longer an Immortal in Sarmatia — at least, none that knew the old ways and was willing to take up the mantle of divinity. How long could his old people last, losing so much? 

For a moment the temptation surged; he could quietly reveal himself to them, go back with them, become their Divine Hero again, teach them what they'd forgotten and help them rebuild... 

Then he remembered what he'd become, and what darkness drove him. 

Living among the remnant of his people, seeing how they'd fallen and remembering what they'd been, he'd feel it rise again soon enough. He'd have to feed that darkness, and what then? 

No, he couldn't turn that loose among them. It would be the final destruction of his ancient people; he'd be not their rescuer but their ruin. 

'Friend...' There was a profound sadness in the Ia-Ma-Zone's voice. 'By our ancient oath, we are bound to this. You have set foot on our ground, and now you must meet our maiden in combat.' 

Methos spat an oath that made the guardswoman blush. No, he didn't want to fight, and he certainly didn't want a bride. Gods, to think of taking one of these back to the Horsemen's camp— 

Well, he could always lose. He knew, none better, the Ia-Ma-Zone style of combat; he could arrange to take a defeat without losing his head, or anything else important. 

Besides, he had an advantage no one here could match; his sword, shield and armor were made of the Gray Metal, stronger than any bronze. No one south of the Ice Country would even recognize it. 

'So be it,' he snapped, wishing this were over already. 'Send her out.' 

The guardswoman bowed — almost exactly the ancient gesture to a higher officer — turned and went into the tent. 

Methos pulled the small shield from his back and set it on his arm, unfastened the safety-strap on his sword's sheath, unclasped his cloak and tossed it aside, and tugged his armor straight. He reviewed his tactics quickly; if the girl relied on the classic low side-swing, he could let it topple him without taking harm, hold off any return blow while staying on the ground, and formally lose the fight that way. If she tried the overhead curve-and-return... 

Then the Ia-Ma-Zone came out of the tent with the prospective bride behind her, and Methos' plans fell apart. 

The girl — no, a woman of at least twenty — was tall for a Sarmatian, dark-haired, handsome rather than pretty, muscled like a young horse, carrying her crescent-bladed axe with ease and familiarity. 

And she had the subtle but unmistakable feel of a pre-Immortal. 

_—babies taken to the temple,_ he remembered, _...no one knows the fathers, or possibly even the mothers... Oh, High Gods!_

The solution to his dilemma blazed before him, and a far better strategy unfolded before his mind's eye. He barely noticed the Ia-Ma-Zone guards blaring on horn trumpets, or the rising mutter of voices from the crowd behind him. By the High Gods, he had the answer! 

'I am Karmendia, chosen of Kerdo,' the woman said formally, 'And I wed none who cannot defeat me.' 

Methos knew the proper response. 'I am—' _No, not that name! An older one..._ 'Rhadamanthos the Wise, and I come to honor the goddess.' _You can't imagine how!_

The guards stepped apart, forming a wide circle, and the noise of the crowd rose to a roar. Methos ignored them, drawing his sword and sliding his feet into position. Karmendia raised her axe, studied him for a moment, then charged. 

She was good, Methos judged as he fended her off. Of course the Sarmatians would send a prime fighter to fulfill their part in the humiliating treaty, and this one was strong, fast and artful. She went through a good dozen different attacks, with well-guarded returns, without repeating herself: if he hadn't known her style in advance, half of them might have caught him. She saw that he was holding back, not truly counter-attacking, watching for a pattern to her strokes — so she grew more imaginative. She circled and darted, and he had to move quickly to keep her from getting under his blocks. Some three or four of her blows got to his shield, and soon his arm began to ache from the impact. 

Not once did she give him an opening, and he knew he'd have to lure her into one. There was the old trick he'd used to defeat Balo, all those centuries ago, and his sword was heavy enough to get through her armor. If only she would come at him with that same whirling motion from high and right... She had to try it sooner or later. 

There: high and right! He ducked and deflected, and jabbed straight for the solar plexus— 

His sword punched through the armor. Methos felt the impact, and then the fatal sliding, all the way up his arm. 

Karmendia jerked away, almost wrenching the sword out of his grasp, a surprised look on her face. It turned to a grimace, not of pain so much as dismay. She knew the blow was loss and ruin. Blood spurted bright on her armor, her arm sagged and the axe fell out of her hand, and her legs gave way. 

The campground was suddenly dead silent with shock. Methos watched Karmendia crumple to the ground, and realized that he'd just broken a legend. He had to forge a new one, and quickly. 

The howl of grief that burst from his throat was only half feigned. It rang loud enough in the silence to draw all eyes to him. He dropped his sword, ran to the slumped body and raised up her head, seeing her eyes droop closed. 

'I came for a bride, not a corpse!' he wailed to all listening ears. 'What good is victory, if it brings me only this?' 

_What good indeed?_ a voice in the back of his mind whispered. _What's the point of all this endless slaughter?_

But he knew the answer too well, and crushed the thought ruthlessly. No, he must go on with this drama. 

He bent over the limp body as if weeping, and listened to the quiet muttering of the crowd. The Ia-Ma-Zone guards approached cautiously, as if wondering what to do next. Quickly, while everyone was off balance, he lifted the body and carried it into the tent. No one made any move to stop him. 

The interior was shadowed dark, but he could make out the cushioned pallet against one side and took the body there. As he set Karmendia down Methos noticed a coolness on his cheeks, and was startled to recognize it for genuine tears. 

Not thinking about what that meant, he loosened the collar of his armor and reached under his shirt. A pang of regret went through him as he touched the carved white stone on its thong: he'd carried it so long, one token of his former life that all his miseries had left him... No, there was no better way, or reason, to give it up at last. He drew it out and held it up for a moment, letting the Ia-Ma-Zone'I steal a look at it. One of them gasped, and hurried to close the flap of the tent. Another quickly lit a lamp. 

'Where did you get that?' the first guardswoman hissed. 'It's a Mother-stone!' 

'I found it on the shore of the Euxine,' Methos duly lied. 'I told you I studied the old ways, and I know what this can do.' He carefully set the circle of milky quartz on Karmendia's body, directly over the wound. 'Leave it there, and otherwise do not touch her,' he said quietly. 'Set lamps at her head and feet, and pray most earnestly to Kerdo for a night and a day. If she is merciful, you shall have the goddess you seek.' 

The Ia-Ma-Zone'I looked at each other, eyes wide and mouths dropping open. They knew something of the legend he invoked, at least enough to do as he'd told them. Ah, and he should say something else, too. 

'As I have slain the bride, I have broken the treaty. I'll take that curse upon my head, and take it away with me. For yourselves, the compact is ended; you need never come here again. Better to remain on the wide plains, far from the eyes and knowledge of the god-men.' 

The guards nodded acceptance, with looks of surprise and unmistakable relief. Yes, they'd wanted to do that for a very long time, and he'd given them honorable reason. 

When Karmendia revived — within eight hours, certainly, possibly much less — she would be hailed as Fans-Theauna, Child of the Goddess, a demigoddess in her own right. The Sarmatians would have their Immortal guardian, the keeper of the old ways. She was a strong and canny warrior, at least, and would have the Ia-Ma-Zone legends to guide her. 

With luck, the Sarmatians might last another thousand years. 

It was time to go. Methos lurched to his feet and headed back toward the entrance to the tent. None of the Ia-Ma-Zone' I tried to stop him, nor said a word, but they gave him that salute again as he passed. He felt it like a weight on his back. 

Outside, his blood-tipped sword lay where he'd dropped it, and his cloak likewise. He cleaned off the sword and sheathed it, picked up his cloak and marched out of the roped-off ring. The crowd of wide-eyed onlookers parted quickly to let him pass, but whispers followed him all the way to his campsite. 

Yes, his tent was up and equipped, his horse unsaddled and fed and a servant was grooming her, and another was feeding the slaves chained nearby. Methos headed for his tent, badly wanting a drink, annoyed that he had nothing but sour northern wine. He sorely missed Egyptian beer. Yes, there stood his cup and ewer. He poured the cup full and thought further. 

Too many people had seen him kill an Ia-Ma-Zone, and tongues would wag. Best to sell the slaves quickly and leave, though that would mean taking a lower price... 

Then again, that could be advantageous. If he brought home a poor return, and a sour report that the northern market was failing, it would be easier to persuade Kronos to turn his attentions southward — perhaps to the wealth of Egypt and its rich caravans. With luck, the Horsemen's camp would be gone when the news of his defeat of a woman warrior reached its present location; Kronos need never hear about, never wonder where woman warriors came from nor think to search for them. There was much in the south that would hold his interest. 

As Methos sipped the watered wine it occurred to him that this wandering life no longer appealed to him. In fact, this centuries-old routine of pillage and travel and exchange and travel again was growing tedious. He missed the comforts and excitements of cities. 

Gods, but he missed the old cities: Truia, Mycenae, Knossos... 

No, they were gone, or changed beyond recognition, and would never again be what they'd once been. That age of the world was gone. 

Even so, the new cities of kings and gods and god-men had more appeal than this endless wandering. He'd like to try settled life again, if only for the change. What, really was the satisfaction in living like this? 

The answer came unbidden: his dark hunger, the rage, the need to slaughter these man-shaped vermin who infested this ugly new world. He had to feed that. Kronos would be waiting to help him feed it, as soon as he returned. Already he could feel the anticipation tickling in his veins... 

Egypt, definitely, and the lands near it. Beer again, and treasure aplenty, and teeming mortals to kill. Good hot weather, far from the wretched cold of the plains north of the Euxine. Perhaps more of the red earth from which Caspian drew the secret of the Gray Metal, perhaps some good-sized horses from a Pharaoh's chariot-stock. 

And perhaps he'd find a woman worth his interest. It had been awhile... 

Methos sipped his wine and turned his attention toward the arguments he could use to turn the Horsemen south. 

* * *

© 2003   
Please send comments to the author! 

02/18/2004 

* * *


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